


Let Me Come Home

by Chrism



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Mentions of Nightmares, Mentions of PTSD, Other, Sleepy Cuddles, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrism/pseuds/Chrism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Steve had started to wonder if Bucky slept at all, aside from the occasional twenty minute nap that would overtake him on the couch, and which he'd inevitably startle awake from before ever falling into a deeper sleep. It'd been his idea to train all afternoon, likely hoping to wear himself out, and it did seem to have done the trick, if he'd fallen asleep in the short time Steve had been gone.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [absolutely wonderful art](http://chyldea.tumblr.com/post/82508676548/comfort-a-k-a-steve-is-a-space-heater) by Chyldea.

The TV was on when Steve opened the door to his apartment, muffled gunshots and ringing shouts filtering through the kitchen from the living room as he came inside and locked the door again behind him, shifting the warm paper bag of takeout against his chest as he hung the key beside the door. The smell of marinara and meatballs, which had tortured him the whole walk home, made his stomach growl as he set the bag on the counter. 

His appetite could wait while he let Bucky know he'd returned, though; the quick trip to the Italian eatery six blocks over had taken twice as long as it should have, with a new worker getting the order wrong, and then the staff insisting they be allowed to fix it, after he assured them he was fine with the food they'd made. Steve had spent another five minutes convincing them to sell him the first meal as well, which he'd left with the family of four that lived downstairs, taking the opportunity to introduce himself to his new neighbors. 

Over an hour later and he was home, and he was very ready to sit down with a heaping plate of pasta and watch a movie with Bucky. He found the TV playing to an empty room (a black and white western, the gunfight he'd heard moments ago giving way to a canyon chase on horseback) and Bucky nowhere in sight. 

Steve frowned a little, using the remote on the back of the couch to turn the film down a touch, and pushed down a sharp pang of worry. There were plenty of other places in the apartment Bucky could be, Steve reminded himself firmly, he wasn't going to disappear the second Steve turned his back. Hadn't yet, in the week they'd spent in their new place in Brooklyn, or in the months before that, Bucky visiting sporadically and then more and more often, afternoons spent together turning into weekend-long stays, until they'd decided to return to New York together. It was ridiculous to fret every time he turned his back but it seemed to happen anyways, more often than Steve liked. 

Shaking off the nerves, Steve searched the rest of the apartment, though it took only moments to make it through the two bedrooms and dining area, and he was starting to give that nagging worry a little more air when he returned to the living room and, thanks to the new angle on the room, found Bucky. Asleep on the floor in front of the couch, he was curled on his side, a small scowl creasing his brow but blessedly, finally, asleep. 

Steve had started to wonder if Bucky slept at all, aside from the occasional twenty minute nap that would overtake him on the couch, and which he'd inevitably startle awake from before ever falling into a deeper sleep. It'd been his idea to train all afternoon, likely hoping to wear himself out, and it did seem to have done the trick, if he'd fallen asleep in the short time Steve had been gone, and on the floor no less. Steve smiled down at him, of course he'd dozed right off for a western, he'd loved listening to them on the radio when they were young, though Steve had always preferred the detective adventures. (Bucky'd always found the mysteries a bit on the boring side, he liked the action and faster pace of the wild west over the intrigue and twists of Steve's favorite, Midnight Racer.) 

Steve huffed out a little sigh of relief. He felt a little silly for worrying, and unfair, because Bucky wouldn't just up and leave like that, but sometimes he couldn't help that little jolt of fear, that he could just turn around and Bucky would be gone again. Sam said that feeling would fade with time, and he hoped that was so, but Sam also said there was a glaring lack of info available on un-grieving a loved one. Steve supposed he would just have to keep playing that one by ear. 

Bucky shifted a little in his sleep, the motion pulling Steve out of his thoughts and back to watching his friend as he frowned a little without waking, the crease in his brow obscured a bit by the hair hanging in his face. He shifted, curled tighter against himself, pulled his arms in against his chest. He must be cold, Steve figured, his hair still wet from the shower and dressed only in sweatpants and socks. Steve pulled a throw off the back of the couch, forest green and soft, and laid it gently over Bucky, pulling it up over his shoulders. He realized he was holding his breath when he stood back up again—he was determined not to rouse or startle him--but Bucky didn't wake, just ducked his head down so the blanket came to his chin. 

Satisfied Bucky was still solidly asleep, Steve returned to the kitchen to dish up a plate of takeout for himself. He sat on a stool at the counter and wolfed down the heaping pile of spaghetti, then went back for seconds, making sure to leave plenty for Bucky to eat later. Steve went after this helping more slowly, savoring it now that the edge had been taken off his hunger. The food was great, probably the best they'd had since they'd been back in New York. Tony had ordered delivery there the night they'd moved in, Sam, Natasha, and Pepper slumped on the couch while Steve, Bucky, and Tony himself sprawled on the floor, eating out of the takeout boxes since everyone was too tired to bother finding the plates. Steve could already tell they'd be regulars at the restaurant; Tony claimed it was one of the best places in town and Steve didn't doubt it. 

His hunger satisfied, Steve put the rest of the food in the refrigerator and rinsed his plate. It had only been about ten minutes since he'd left Bucky in the living room, but it was still a relief to walk in and find him curled in the same spot, soundly asleep. With any luck he'd actually stay asleep this time, long enough to get some real rest. The floor couldn't be that comfortable, but they'd slept on far worse, and getting a little stiff was still better than the risking the chance he wouldn't fall back to sleep if Steve tried to get him up onto the couch, much less back to his own bed. 

When he came around the couch Steve could see Bucky's sleep was perhaps not as restful as he'd hoped. He'd curled tighter in against himself, one arm free of the blanket now but pulling it to his chest, like he was still cold, and his face was drawn into a frown, little twitches of movement around his eyes and mouth as though he was dreaming. 

Steve hoped it wasn't a bad one, the kind where he woke with a shout or a silent jolt, where he shook or disappeared into the bathroom after, where sometimes he'd let Steve put an arm around his shoulders and pull him close, and others he'd go stand and look out the windows for a long while. Those sorts of dreams were no stranger to Steve, either, but they didn't trouble him as often as they disturbed Bucky, who by this afternoon looked like he'd been awake the better part of three days, his eyes dark and his silences longer, his smile and laughter hard to come by. Steve had seen him awake longer, but it hadn't been a pretty sight. 

Bad dream brewing or not, Steve knew he could at least do something about Bucky being cold. Steve hated waking up with a chill, it made him feel jittery and brought up things he tried not to dwell on, and with everything he'd read in that Soviet file...he figured Bucky wouldn't appreciate it any more than he did. 

He sat quietly on the floor with his legs folded, up near Bucky's head. “Hey Buck,” Steve murmured, as Natasha had suggested to avoid startling him, voice first and then touch, and leaned forward to lay a hand on the top of his head. Bucky stirred a little, moved his head, but blessedly didn't jump or wake fully. Steve pushed long, wet curls of hair off his forehead, tucked them behind his ear. The lines across his brow deepened, and Bucky huffed in a deeper breath, stirring now, his eyes opening in slits to squint against the light, till he was blinking drowsily up at Steve. Moving his hand down to clasp the back of Bucky's neck, Steve rubbed his thumb against the tight muscle there. 

“Steve,” Bucky mumbled, voice thick and rough from sleep, and the corner of his mouth quirked up a little. Steve smiled back, couldn't help the swell of warmth he felt seeing that half-asleep grin. 

“Shh, you looked cold,” Steve told him, shifting closer to rub his hand down his back. “C'mere, and go back to sleep.” Bucky shifted, and squirmed forward to lay his head on Steve's thigh. He threw an arm over Steve's leg, heavy and unyielding metal (and warm, not cool like Steve had expected, the first time he'd touched it), and pressed closer, his hand resting easily over his knee. 

Steve tangled his fingers through the length of Bucky's hair again, soft and warm and still a little shower-wet. After a moment Steve returned to rubbing his back, slow and soothing, and Bucky heaved a soft sigh, the tension going out of his neck and shoulders, his weight pressing heavy and relaxed against Steve. 

“Better?” Steve asked quietly, leaning back against the couch. He didn't expect he'd be moving for a while, and that was just fine. 

“Mmph, warm,” Bucky grunted, and pushing his face tighter against Steve, eyes closing and that little smile going soft and fading as he sank back towards sleep. 

Steve let his attention drift to the television, where the Western was still playing. It was no detective adventure, sure, but it was a welcome break from thinking of the sort of threats they faced on a weekly, even daily, basis, and not one he often afforded himself when there was always so much to be done. But it was worth it, right now, Bucky getting much-needed rest was worth a few hours of idleness as the day wound down. 

By the next commercial break Bucky was breathing deep and even, slumped warm and heavy beside him, unfazed by the hard floor or the noise of the television. It stirred an odd sort of nostalgia for Steve, the scene felt familiar; Bucky sleeping off his exhaustion in a dreamless, sprawling heap, mouth open as he quietly snored, but the details had all slipped sideways, from the room and the smells and the television, right down to the length of Steve's legs, or the shining hand holding loosely to his pants. 

Steve had wondered more than once if the move to New York was the right one for him, for them. It had been home once, but it wasn't like they could just go back to that, and there was no point in trying. If Steve knew anything, he knew that. 

Steve rested his hand at the base of Bucky's neck, mindful of the scarred joining of flesh and metal, and laid his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. New York would never stop changing, and the Lord knew he and Bucky were worlds away from the two street kids who'd met brawling in an alley, and Steve hadn't been sure anyplace would feel like home again. But as he drifted off to the rhythm of Bucky snoring, Steve thought he'd found it.


End file.
